


And I'm five years ago and three thousand miles away [REWRITE]

by Sunnyrea



Series: Five Years Ago and Three Thousand Miles Away [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 07:37:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/884688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnyrea/pseuds/Sunnyrea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I couldn’t let you die if I could save you,” Sherlock gasps, looking only at John. “Can’t you see that?”</i>
</p><p>  <i>“Sherlock, you half killed me anyway when you died.”</i></p><p>[Sherlock comes back from the dead after 3 years to find John engaged]</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I'm five years ago and three thousand miles away [REWRITE]

**Author's Note:**

> So, as you may see from the title this is a rewrite. I originally wrote this work a year ago. Following that I wrote [Someone send a runner for the feeling that I lost today](http://archiveofourown.org/works/621556/chapters/1121797) about the 3 years in between. This work ended up eclipsing the original and since then I have felt troubled about the quality of 'Five Years Ago,' especially when the works were read in chronological order.
> 
> So, finally I decided 'to hell with this, it's my story,' and endeavored on a rewrite. The major points are unchanged but new scenes have been added and old ones improved. I hope if you are reading this for a second time it becomes better in your view. If it is your first time then don't worry about the past and just enjoy!

Sherlock steps out of the cab and stares at the black door of 221B. He hasn’t stood on this street, in front of this building, in front of this most important door in three years. It feels more like coming home than any place in his childhood.

Sherlock pushes hair from his eyes and flips up the collar of his coat though the temperature does not even warrant the coat itself. John’s voice in his mind makes a snarky comment about cheekbones but it’s not enough to chase the nerves away. Whether the nerves are from anticipation or fear is a self reflective question Sherlock does not have the hard drive for right now. Sherlock's fingers tense around the strap of his single bag as he stares at the door. Though the door stands only a meter way, Sherlock feels three years in between.

Sherlock breathes in very slowly, "fine," and steps forward.

Sherlock strides over to the door and pulls out his keys on impulse before stopping short. The door knob is different thus a new lock. Sherlock shakes his head and pockets the keys. Instead he knocks sharply – after six PM now, someone should be home. Sherlock knocks again after ten seconds of silence then two seconds later the door opens and a short woman with medium length, blond hair looks up at him.

“Hello.” She smiles politely, hand on the door. “Yes?”

Sherlock frowns. “Who are you?”

She pulls back slightly in surprise. “I... I don't understand, who –” Then her eyes go wide. “Oh my god, you’re... you’re... You look just like the picture.” She stares, opening and closing her mouth a few times before sputtering on. “John said once he thought – but that was...” She looks him up and down, face still full of shock. She blows out a puff of air and her hand falls off the door frame. “Shit.”

Sherlock grits his teeth together and forces out a fake smile. “I take it you must be John’s present girlfriend.”

She cocks her head then smiles, but it’s wholly different than the one from before. “Fiancée, actually.”

Sherlock’s blinks hard and swallows once before he speaks again. “Fiancée?”

“Fiancée.”

"I see." He breathes out once. “Interesting.”

She frowns. “Not as interesting as _you_ back from the dead, I think.”

“Are you going to let me in or do I need push my way past?” Sherlock snaps, suddenly unable to stand the sight of her in _his_ doorway.

She stares at him for a moment, jaw clenched then nods stiffly. “Come on.”

She turns and starts up the steps, leaving Sherlock to close the door. Sherlock drops his bag in a corner then glances around briefly, notices the wallpaper has changed to a plain off white. He looks at Mrs. Hudson's door briefly then steps up the stairs. He reaches the top just as she calls for John.

“John, we have a guest!”

“I am going to guess not your mother or mine by that tone, Mary,” John calls back from the kitchen. 

Sherlock has to abruptly grip the door frame to keep from falling over at the sound of John’s voice.

“No,” Mary replies quietly, glancing back at Sherlock.

Sherlock peers over her head into the flat to see a completely different space from the one he’d left three years ago. The wallpaper has changed to pale blue paint which matches the white curtains peppered with small roses. Brown carpet covers the floor and all the furniture now appears to be from the same catalog – creams and browns made from heavy fabric to withstand stains and consistent wear. A low coffee table sits in front of the fireplace and the bookshelves have been reduced to only one in the corner by the door – though it is full to the brim with books.

“Right, so I've got tea,” John says as he comes into the room from the kitchen carrying a tray. “Three enough?”

Then his eyes lock onto Sherlock. 

His gaze feels like falling into ice water – like cool air, like life brand new – and Sherlock speaks as steadily as he can, “Hello, John.”

The tray slides right off of John hands to hit the floor. The teapot shatters on the table by the fireplace and sprays hot tea everywhere. Mary jumps back and bumps into one of the cream chairs against the right wall. The tea cups roll in all directions, one knocking into the couch between the windows, while the spoons fling toward the walls, one going back into the kitchen. The last piece of china rolls on its side and comes to a stop at Sherlock’s feet. Sherlock stays still and holds his breath until John takes a large unsteady step backward, bracing one hand against the mantel – no skull or knives to worry about cutting himself on anymore.

“You’re alive...” John whispers.

Sherlock nods. “I am.”

“You’re bloody alive,” John gasps like he’s drowning.

“Yes, yes, I am,” Sherlock repeats because he knows the more times John hears his voice the more real Sherlock will be.

John lets himself sag against the fireplace and stares at Sherlock. He breathes erratically, his body wanting to run away with him but John trying to force calm. Sherlock takes a step forward, his hand held out then stops, unsure.

“John...” Mary says quietly.

John’s eyes tick to her then back to Sherlock.

“Do you... do you want me to....” She glances at Sherlock but doesn’t seem to know what to do either.

Sherlock clears his throat and holds his hands out to the sides in a clear gesture of surrender. “I can explain.”

John’s eyes narrow and, before even Sherlock’s fast paced brain can interpret the surge of anger, John leaps across the room to punch Sherlock in the face. Sherlock stumbles backward and Mary jumps out of the way again with a high gasp. John completely ignores her and punches Sherlock hard twice more until he falls to the ground, just missing one cream colored chair and knocking over a side table with a crash.

“You can explain?” John screams. “You can explain!”

“Wait –” Sherlock holds up his hand toward John to try and regain control – he should have expected this, should have foreseen a storm.

Instead John jumps on top of Sherlock, knocks Sherlock's arm out of the way, grabs Sherlock’s shoulders and slams him down into the floor. Sherlock hears a cracking noise he cannot pinpoint as himself or the floor. He groans and tries to twist out of John’s grasp but John has him securely pinned down.

“You can explain? You can explain to me where you have been? Why you – why you were dead!?”

John keeps on screaming and slams Sherlock against the floor again, shaking Sherlock and shaking himself as he grips Sherlock so hard John’s nails bite through the fabric of Sherlock’s coat.

“John, stop!” Sherlock hears Mary cry but it sounds faint with John still shouting.

“You were dead! Dead! You made me believe it! I watched you fall! Three years!” He sits up straight and Sherlock feels tears splash against his face. John gasps hard. “Damn it!” He suddenly snarls and punches Sherlock in the face again. “You think you can fucking explain that to me!”

“Please...” Sherlock gasps, putting up his hands trying to protect himself.

John grabs the lapels of Sherlock’s coat and shakes him again. “You can explain why you would do that to me? You can? Really!” John shakes him and shakes him. “Why would you do that to me? You bloody fucking bastard! Why would you do that to me?”

Suddenly John flies back and, through the blur of his senses, Sherlock sees Mary hauling John away by his shoulders. John barely fights her before screaming again, a sound so horrible, so full of anguish and anger that Sherlock heaves himself onto his knees to stop it, to do something, to say something, to apologize.

“Get out!” Mary shouts at Sherlock.

“Please, just let me –”

“Get out!” She screams again, putting herself between John crouching on the floor and Sherlock in the same position. She points violently at the door. “Now!”

Sherlock jumps up despite the pain shooting through his jaw and the ache in his back – no concussion but bruising one hundred percent sure – then all but runs out the door. He nearly falls down the steps with the sound of Mary’s shushing noises and John’s groans following him out. Sherlock bursts through the door and slams it closed behind him. 

Out on the street, Sherlock spits out blood and pants, trying to get any air he can into his lungs.

This is not what was supposed to happen, this is not the avenue Sherlock wanted his return to take. John could scream all he wanted, curse Sherlock, hit him but then he should calm down and take Sherlock back. Sherlock should not be on the street. He should be inside with John tight in his arms.

Suddenly, a black car pulls up to the curb and the back door swings open.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft’s voice snaps.

Sherlock blinks with surprise – CCTV maybe or has Mycroft had a man watching 221B all these years? He spits out blood again then jumps into the car.

–––––

“For your face.”

Sherlock looks up to see a bag of ice wrapped in a thin towel held out in Mycroft’s hand. Sherlock takes the ice without complaint and presses it against the side of his face that currently hurts more. Mycroft steps across the room then sits down in a chair facing Sherlock.

“And how long have you known?” Sherlock asks.

“Over two years.”

Sherlock grimaces. “I suppose I should have asked how long you didn’t know.”

“Did you really think I would trust the first autopsy and a next day newspaper article?”

Sherlock scowls and leans back in his chair. “Enjoy cutting into my fake corpse, did you?”

Mycroft sighs and rubs his forehead. “Save your dramatics, Sherlock. As much as you like to make everyone believe that you are the smarter Holmes, we both know –”

“IQ tests mean nothing.”

“Neither does showing off!”

Sherlock shakes his head angrily then hisses at the pain in his face. Mycroft quirks an eyebrow but makes no other sign of worry. 

“Her name is Mary Morstan,” Mycroft starts.

“Don’t tell me.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, Sherlock, of course you want to know.”

Sherlock frowns and glances away at the wall but says nothing.

“She teaches English at Oxford,” Mycroft continues. “She and John have been together for two years last month and –”

“And engaged already,” Sherlock interrupts, “moves fast, doesn’t she?”

“If you’re going to demonize her, Sherlock, do your background research first, won’t you?”

“Oh, forget about her!” Sherlock snarls. “She’s not the...” Sherlock sighs and drops the bag of ice from his face, his voice falling to a whisper, “not the problem.”

“What did you expect after three years, Sherlock?”

Sherlock opens his mouth, starts three sarcastic retorts then flicks his gaze to the floor. "Not that."

Mycroft makes a ‘hmm’ noise and drums his fingers once on the arm of his chair. Sherlock lifts the bag of ice back up to his face. They sit in silence, neither looking at the other. All Sherlock sees in front of him is John’s face – wild and screaming and full of tears and such sounds that make Sherlock feel as though he might actually crack into pieces right where he sits now. 

“He wouldn’t stop screaming at me,” Sherlock murmurs, “Mary had to pull him off me – she had to stop him from hurting me.”

“He wants to hurt you like you hurt him.” Sherlock looks up at Mycroft. Mycroft folds his hands together on his lap and only now does Sherlock see the anger in Mycroft too. “You have no idea what happened to him when you died.”

–––––

“Molly?”

The door to the lab swings closed behind Sherlock with an echoing squeak as Molly Hooper –amazing, so underestimated, Molly Hooper – stares at him, frozen like a deer on a car lit road. Then she drops the glass slide in her hand and runs across the three meters between them and all but jumps into his arms.

“Oh my god… oh my god… Sher… oh my god,” her voice runs over and over and he can hear her crying already. “You’re back. Oh my god, you’re back.”

Sherlock breathes in deeply, smells the scent of old death in her hair, and squeezes her more tightly. The control he held onto with Mycroft – facts and judgment thrown in his face – begins to crack. After a moment, Molly backs up so they can look at each other.

“Have you…” she trails off but Sherlock knows now she actually sees his face, the dark bruises on his cheeks, and she breathes in slowly. “Oh god… You’ve seen him.”

“Yes.”

She bites her bottom lip and let’s go of his arms, stepping back a fraction. “So, you…”

Sherlock breathes in sharply. “He’s engaged.”

“I know.”

“He’s engaged,” Sherlock says again with more emphasis.

“Sherlock, I know.”

“He…” _He didn’t wait for me, he moved on, he punched me in the face instead of hugging me_ but Sherlock cannot say anything more. “He’s engaged.” And he feels like a dramatic sitcom but it fits too well.

Sherlock steps around Molly out of the doorway and into the lab. He looks at the stark white counters, the gleaming microscopes, the precious spaces where he and John used to work together, used to reason and deduce and hear John’s voice say ‘brilliant’ time and again, his hand on Sherlock’s arm, on his shoulder, right beside him. Suddenly, Sherlock’s hand lashes out and he smacks two beakers off the table to smash onto the floor. Molly cries out in surprise and Sherlock smashes another glass vile, shards flying into the wall.

“Sherlock!” Molly shouts.

Sherlock heaves breathes, feels his lungs constricting, gulps in too much air and grips the edge of the lab table to stay upright. It only lasts a few seconds before he falls to the floor, knees hitting hard and his hands in fists. All this time, three years, three years and how could he have been so wrong? How could he have thought London a perfect time capsule?

Molly’s arms wrap around Sherlock as she kneels beside him making shushing noises as though he were a child. His thoughts keep looping around, keep thinking of all the times he pulled out one photo of John, of all the places far away and how John was not a fixed point, not just there waiting on the horizon like he thought at all.

“Sherlock,” Molly murmurs, hand stroking his hair, “It’s all right.”

Sherlock’s whole body shakes, emotion coming through physically, tremors he cannot control. He does not cry.

–––––

Sherlock returns to Baker Street the next day – two PM, Saturday, Mary out – and knocks on the door, stepping back immediately to keep more than John’s reach between himself and the door. The door opens so quickly John must have been waiting.

“Sherlock,” John says, holding the door and appearing far calmer than the day before.

“John.”

He looks Sherlock up and down once then points to Sherlock’s face. “You should have put ice on that.”

“I did.”

John only raises his eyebrows and steps out of the doorway. “Come in then.”

They walk up the stairs then back into the flat which once was home and now hosts a whole new life. John strides across the room, doesn’t offer to take Sherlock’s coat. (He won’t be staying long)? 

Sherlock’s eyes tick around the room again; he sees a clock with no numbers on the wall above the two cream chairs which so nearly featured in the bout of yesterday. Above the couch, between the windows hang two generic pieces of artwork – a London street scene and an ocean scene. Then Sherlock turns to John waiting next to the chairs by the fireplace. Sherlock notices the television in the far corner set in a new shelving unit fixed to the wall where one of the bookshelves used to be; framed photos adorn the other shelves –John in uniform, close up of Mary, John surrounded by members of his regiment, two family photos obviously Mary's, sober photo of Harry, John and Mary together with snow in their hair; Sherlock’s face with a rare soft smile in one silver frame.

Sherlock sees a new crack in the mantel piece, two anniversary cards on top, worn edges on the chairs, stain on the carpet, half done crossword puzzle, a cotton camisole on one chair. Sherlock sees two people, two different people.

“Stop analyzing and sit down,” John mutters.

Sherlock’s head snaps around back to John because his voice sounded so... familiar. Sherlock walks over to the chair closer to the windows – new chair in the spot where his old chair always sat. Tea for two waits on the coffee table between the chairs – dent where the teapot hit yesterday in the wood. Sherlock sits down and picks up his teacup though his throat feels completely closed. John sits across from him but does not touch his cup.

“So,” John begins, voice disconnected, “you said you could explain?”

Sherlock puts his cup down without taking a sip. “All right.”

Sherlock tells John about Jim – Moriarty, ever the enemy’s name – about the threats, about their lives hanging in the balance, about all the fail safe plans which had to go through and how he had to die, but not really die, to save the people he cared about; how he spent all this time unraveling Jim’s web and dismantling each strand; how he spent three years trying to find his way back until each tendril of the vast network was eradicated; about Sebastian Moran, the final and biggest threat.

John watches Sherlock silently as he speaks. When Sherlock finishes he folds his hands and waits for whichever side John chooses to come down on.

“I see,” John replies.

Sherlock waits again but John does not go on. Sherlock tilts his head. “Is that all?”

“What more do you want me to say, Sherlock? Everything you said makes perfect sense, completely logical and thorough.”

Sherlock frowns. “But you feel something else.”

John sighs and his shoulders sag. He puts his hand over his eyes. “Human beings are more than logic, Sherlock, even you.”

“I am aware of that, John." Sherlock breathes out keeping his hands clasped tightly together.

“You called me, Sherlock,” John sits up, pushes past Sherlock's words, and leans forward. “You called me, on your mobile, from that rooftop to say goodbye.”

“I had to make you believe,” Sherlock insists but his voice sounds more like a rasp. “You had to believe so I could... so I could protect you.”

“No, you didn’t." John shakes his head.

"Yes, I –"

John holds up his hand. "You didn't have to call me. You could have just jumped, Sherlock, and I still would have thought you just as dead without your goodbye ‘note.’ It wouldn’t have made a difference to my safety, as you describe, if you jumped or were pushed or whatever I might have assumed without your call. To me you'd have been dead on the pavement either way.” John pauses to breathe sharply and his hands clench. Sherlock opens his mouth but no words come out. John watches him then continues. “But, instead, you waited." He smiles briefly with no pleasure. "You waited until I came back to Barts so you could call and so that I could watch you fall from that building.”

Sherlock stares at John, presses his lips tightly together – heart forcing him to hear what his brain explains away – but finds nothing to say. So John says it for him.

“I can’t quite decide if you thought you would be able to give me a fresh start, have me just write you off as a ‘fake’ and no longer care or if maybe you thought if I actually witnessed your fall then I wouldn’t search too hard to figure out just what happened. Either way it’s particularly cruel.”

“John, I was not trying to be cruel, I was –”

“What you did, Sherlock, was think with just your brain and then skipped right over the consequences.”

Sherlock stares at John silence stretch until he says quietly, “It wasn’t easy for me either, John, I wasn’t happy.”

John shrugs. “Maybe, but you didn’t believe I was dead.”

“No, I pretended to die so you didn’t die for real,” Sherlock replies bluntly.

John shakes his head and sighs. Then suddenly he tilts his head back and laughs. Sherlock stares but John just chuckles more.

“What is funny?”

“This,” John chuckles again and motions between them, “it’s like any argument we’ve had before, me having to explain normal human reactions and emotions because they fly right over your head.”

Sherlock clenches his teeth because God damn it if he doesn't understand emotion now after three years alone looking toward just one thing; but, no, he can't take back what he did before so Sherlock tilts his head again and just says, "I see."

John puts his hand over his eyes, then drops it again. He stares at Sherlock without speaking like he's afraid Sherlock will disappear all over again. Then he picks up his tea cup and takes a big sip. He puts it down then claps his hands on his thighs. “I don’t know, this all feels so surreal, maybe I should actually be happy.”

“Really?”

“Well, yes, this time you used your intellect and your logic to achieve an emotionally motivated end.”

Sherlock swallows, smiles once then lets his eyes wander around the room. “Well...”

“Well,” John repeats.

Sherlock turns his eyes back to John and they stare at each other. John takes another sip of his tea then puts down the cup.

“I’m still angry with you.” He points at Sherlock. 

“All right,” Sherlock nods.

“Very.”

"I understand."

“Okay.” John stands up. “On your way then.”

Sherlock stares up at John with surprise but John only raises his eyebrows and does not back down. “Already?”

"Yes."

Sherlock sits up onto the edge of his chair. "We've barely talked, John."

"Stop." John smiles and Sherlock notices how tight it spreads at the corners. “Sherlock, you have to take it in steps for me, all right?” His smile shifts a bit, as if it might crack right off his face. “Please.”

Sherlock nods and stands. “Steps.”

They walk together to the door. John remains in the doorway of the flat to let Sherlock find his own way down the stairs. Sherlock turns and reaches out for John’s hand but John takes a step back. Sherlock’s hand falls to his side and he looks down at the carpet.

“I missed you, John,” Sherlock says then pivots and walks down the stairs.

He hears, “you… bloody bastard,” follow him out.

–––––

Sherlock sits on one of the long silver tables in the morgue usually meant for the dead and watches as Molly slices through layers of skin and muscles on her current autopsy. She puts the scalpel aside and reaches for a bone saw. Sherlock pulls his legs up so he is sitting cross legged as the saw whirs and crunches. Molly puts the saw aside and wipes specks off her facial shield with gloved hands.

"So then?" Molly says suddenly.

Sherlock blinks and looks up from the dead body to the live one. "What?"

"Well," Molly tips up the shield away from her face, "you're not working on a case so this body doesn't... it doesn't have to do with you..."

"And?"

She half smiles and shifts her weight. "So, what is it?"

Sherlock stares at her and she raises her eyebrows once, smiling wider. Sherlock stands up, picks up the rib spreader from Molly's row of tools and hands it to Molly. Then he walks back to his table and hops back on. 

Molly glances down at the rib spreader and nods. "Okay then."

She tips the shield back down over her face and inserts the rib spreader into the corpse's chest.

"You tried to warn me."

The rib spreader makes a loud crunching noise as Molly jerks up, "Shit!" She whispers another curse, shifts the spreader around then snaps her head up. "What?" She looks over at Sherlock sharply, hands still deep in the chest cavity.

"You tried to warn me," Sherlock repeats softer.

Molly slowly takes her hands out of the corpse and holds them up. "I did?"

"While I was gone, you told me he was happy."

Molly nods slowly and makes an 'o' with her lips. Sherlock crosses his legs again and props his elbows on his knees, palms flat together. He looks at Molly then his eyes slowly shift to the white of the floor – a white teapot, white cups, with tea un–drunk. 

Sherlock tilts his head then looks up again, Molly still staring at him. "You warned me I'd lose him."

Molly nods again. "I did."

"Well, Molly, I'm not." Sherlock jumps off the metal table and sweeps out of the room without looking back.

–––––

“Sherlock…?”

“You’ve changed your mobile number.” John stares at Sherlock blankly from the doorway. Sherlock raises both eyebrows. “Thus I was unable to call you.”

"Decided not to use your Google skills?" Sherlock only stares at John until he sighs and leans against the door frame, crossing his arms. "So what then?"

Sherlock's lip quirks up. “I have a case.”

John’s eyes fly open. “What?”

"Not the most intriguing but must restart somewhere." Sherlock clicks the screen of his mobile to life and holds it up for John to see.

John does not look at the phone. “Sherlock you’ve barely been back a week and most, if not all, of London believes you’re dead. How do you have a case?”

Sherlock smirks. “I know where Lestrade lives.”

"You..." John jerks up to standing and hisses, “you went to his house?”

“I’d rather not have all of Scotland Yard knowing my status of alive. Though I collected a large amount of information to exonerate me, it will take time."

“Did you give him a heart attack?”

“He broke a coffee mug.”

John sighs. “Responsible for a lot of broken dishware at this rate, aren’t you?”

“Are you coming then?”

“On what?”

Sherlock sighs. “The case, John, how many times must I say it?”

John’s clenches his jaw and holds up his hand to his mouth. “You want me to come on a case,” he points quickly at Sherlock, “with you?”

“Of course."

“You want –” John cuts himself off and balls one hand into a fist. He makes a choked off growling sort of noise and Sherlock instinctually feels the need to step back. “I’m not coming with you, Sherlock.”

“John, you know I need –“

“I know exactly what you need,” John snaps. “But I need to not come with you.”

"John..." Sherlock smiles and puts his hands palm together by his waist before continuing. "You know what I do best and I know I do it best with you." John's hands twitch but he quickly balls them into fists. Sherlock steps closer to the stoop having to look up slightly at John in the doorway. "You said steps, but cannot this be a step? Can't we restart?"

"We can't just go back three years, Sherlock."

"Why not?" 

"Why..." John scoffs. "It's three years, Sherlock, not three months. You can't just restart that."

"Our cases gave you a purpose, John, how can you not want that back?"

"Sherlock, I've moved on."

"Progress isn't linear, 'moving on' does not mean you have to forsake everything past," Sherlock bites back.

"Sherlock, no," John replies sternly.

"John, I am asking –"

"Sherlock," John interrupts. "Just because I understand why you did what you did three years ago does not mean I’ve forgiven you.”

The energy – the righteousness – deflates from Sherlock and he stares at John speaking softly, “I didn’t ask you to forgive me.”

John shrugs. “Maybe you should have.” He steps back into the hall, pushing the door closed. “Enjoy your case, Sherlock.”

–––––

Sherlock paces back and forth across Mycroft’s living room, “The problem is Mary."

Mycroft sits in a chair beside the window reading one of his three morning papers, silent as usual.

"He always chose me – the adventure, the danger – before. What does she bring that trumps that?"

Mycroft snorts derisively behind his paper.

“Yes, Mycroft, I am sure sex with Ms. Morstan –“

“Dr. Morstan,” Mycroft mutters behind his paper. 

“– is pleasurable,” Sherlock continues, “but..." Sherlock clears his throat. "But I can offer all she brings plus more, more than mundane domesticity. He cannot refuse that."

Mycroft’s paper flops down and he stares at Sherlock. "Put sex on the table, have you?"

Sherlock stops pacing to put his hands on his hips and fix Mycroft with a serious look. Mycroft raises both eyebrows and pulls his paper back up.

“How long did any of his girlfriends last before?” Sherlock puts his hands over his face and rubs hard as he whirls around again to pace the room length wise instead of width. “He’s tried to replace me with this one. As you said, she teaches at Oxford so she must be a shade smarter in his eyes than the rest of this city.” He drops his hands.

Mycroft sighs.

“So, he’s put her in my place and thinks it’s just as good, only he has sex this time,” Sherlock goes on. “And less danger which in his mind he thinks is good because he’s convinced himself that’s the proper, normal thing.”

“So, have sex with him and avoid being shot at then you’ve won him back, is that your solution?” Mycroft asks deadpan.

"Your wit remains as singular as before I left, Mycroft," Sherlock growls.

"Yes, because you simply left, not faked your death by suicide or anything so dramatic."

"Mycroft..."

"Are you trying to imply his reluctance has all to do with Dr. Morstan and nothing to do with his anger toward you?" Mycroft asks, placing his paper in his lap.

"I am aware of my actions and the results they have created. I do not need you to inform me."

Mycroft frowns. "Well then?"

"Time heals all wounds." Mycroft rolls his eyes but Sherlock ignores it and presses on. "He does not need to forgive me yet. First I must simply get rid of her."

–––––

When Mary opens the door of her Oxford office, Sherlock awaits her on the other side. Mary gasps in surprise, one book slipping off the pile in her arms, which Sherlock catches before it hits the floor.

“Sherlock… what…” She stares at him then takes the book from his hand when Sherlock offers it back. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to see you, Dr. Morstan.”

She narrows her eyes and gives him a disbelieving look. “Really?”

“Believe me, professor, I spend as little time as possible in any university setting except for laboratory use. There can be no other reason for my presence.”

“Oh,” her face scrunches, expression surprised. “I would have thought with how much you value intelligence you would love universities, especially one like Oxford.” She grins with pride.

“Universities full of professors clinging on to tenure far past their time of quality, pontificating useless facts, often inaccurately, to wholly lack luster, uncomprehending students only attending classes to receive a grade so they can obtain a degree then promptly forget everything they supposedly learned from their tired professors?” Sherlock scoffs. “Oh, quite the type of place I’d enjoy.”

Mary blinks rapidly then clicks her teeth. “Wow, I heard you could be an asshole.”

Sherlock cocks his head. “Coffee?”

“Carry the books then,” she says and dumps them into Sherlock’s arms.

Mary leads the way through the old corridors, down one flight of steps and into a lounge marked ‘Professors Only.’ She sweeps an archeology magazine off one table and points at it before walking over to the array of coffee makers – one espresso machine – lined up on the counter against the wall. Sherlock drops the four books on the table then pulls out a chair.

“Cream or sugar?” Mary asks.

“Black.”

She cocks an eyebrow at him. “How… adventurous of you.”

Sherlock does not respond – taunt at his cases with John, mockery of his work and behavior in the past, or simply trying to keep Sherlock off balance? She suspects his intentions. Sherlock sits down.

Five minutes of silence later, Mary sets two mugs down on the table, milk in hers, and sits two seats away from Sherlock. “So, you’ve come to see me, Mr. Holmes, why?”

“Let’s not play games, Mary.” Sherlock shifts his mug aside with one gloved finger. “You know why I’m here.”

Mary blows on her coffee. “You want me gone?”

Sherlock smiles.

Mary waves a hand in the air. “I don’t see why." Then sips her coffee. "I would think you would be pleased to know that John is happy.”

“He’s not happy; he’s domesticated.”

“I’m sure his situation with you wasn’t domestic in the slightest.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rise with surprise.

“Would you rather have found him locked up in his flat alone just waiting for you?" She frowns. "Waiting for the dead to rise again?”

Sherlock tilts his head then smirks. “You’re not his first girlfriend and you probably won’t be his last. You all leave eventually.”

“But I’m not his girlfriend, am I? I’m his fiancée.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “And what makes you think I’ll just leave because you come here with a flip of your coat?”

“Because he doesn't need you anymore now that I’m back.”

“Why is it mutually exclusive, me or you?" She brushes one strand of hair behind her ear – a tell. "You’re just friends, aren’t you?” Her jaw tenses and she wants Sherlock to respond – yes or no – a facet she is unsure of from John's past, just that small chink in her confidence.

Sherlock stares back and does not answer her question. “There’s really no point to you, is there? So you split the rent but what other benefit do you really bring?” Sherlock pauses and waves a hand. “Apart from the obvious.”

Mary sets her mug down but does not blush or turn away with any embarrassment. “What do you bring that’s so much better?”

“A purpose, Dr. Morstan, something better than watching telly every night after work.” 

“Oh?” She says, voice slightly high and strained. “Running around on cases that might get you killed, maybe for real this time around, fixing other people’s lives but not caring a wit about them while you do it and dragging John after you like a puppy is a worthy purpose?” Her voice rises but not quite shouting. “How was you bringing him down a peg every time you called him stupid or lied to him to prove a point or testing theories on him by drugging him up or worse any kind of valuable life? How are you something better for him?”

Sherlock lays his hands flat on the table, does not rise to her bait. “He was mine before he was yours."

"And look what you did with him," Mary hisses back.

Sherlock breathes slowly through his nose but he cannot deny this accusation. Sherlock's fist clenches and he leans back in his chair. Push forward. “So then you think you’re the better fit for his life?” Mary nods and Sherlock laughs with contempt. “You with the smoking habit, two younger sisters still financially dependent on your parents, a preoccupation with Wilde plays, more on the overweight side of –“

“Stop,” Mary holds up a hand, “do you think throwing around facts about me is going to make me turn tail and run? You could deduce the last time John and I had sex from what I’m wearing or whatever but that won’t make me hand John to you in my handbag!”

Sherlock glances at her fingernails. “It was four days ago.”

Mary huffs loudly. “Look, I don’t care how you know what you know, Sherlock. I care about, John. If John decides he wants you back in his life then that is fine. That is his choice, not mine.” Sherlock cocks his head and furrows his eyebrows. Mary claps her hands together once then stands up. “What I do know, however, is that he’s not going to ask me to leave even if you two really do patch it all up.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock leans forward over the table, “are you really so sure about that?”

“Oh, I am, Sherlock.” She picks up the books they’d brought down from her office. “Because I know what’s happened in his life these past three years and I know what will happen if he goes back to his life being just about you.”

“And what’s that?”

“You’ll kill him.”

Sherlock feels his confident base shifting beneath him but he keeps Mary's eyes. "I will never hurt, John, not again."

Mary stares at him and this time some real hate come through her words, “Are you so sure about that? You almost did last time.”

–––––

“You’re eating a lot.”

Sherlock glances at the cherry tomato on his fork then up at John. “I asked you to lunch, one eats at lunch.”

“Yeah, it’s just… Well, I guess you’re not on a case right now then?”

Sherlock smiles. “Interested?”

“No.”

“Just finished a case, actually.”

John takes a bite of his noodles and nods. “Successfully?”

Sherlock fixes John with a look. “When are they not?”

“Well, there was that time –“

“Mycroft was cheating.”

“What about –“

“And how is the hospital?” Sherlock interrupts, gulping down the last of his tea. “Good… working?”

“Okay.” John puts down his fork. “What is it?”

“What?” Sherlock shrugs, the picture of innocence. “I asked about your job?”

“You hate small talk.”

“Do I?”

“What is it, Sherlock?” John insists.

Sherlock drops the farce. “How long are you going to keep this up? This little carbon copy ‘normal’ life?”

John sighs. “Sherlock…”

“I know you must miss it. Going to work, coming home, pub on Friday’s, telly each night, tea with her folks? What is that?”

“It’s life, Sherlock.”

Sherlock taps his fingers together. “Boring.”

John takes a drink of his water. “Fulfilling.”

“This is not you, John. That life is not you.”

"How do you know what is me anymore, Sherlock?" John says, pointing at Sherlock with his fork.

"Basic things to not change."

"You just want someone to say 'amazing' at the right times. You don't really need me."

Sherlock does not speak for a moment until John looks up and makes eye contact. "Yes, I do, John."

John stares at Sherlock, hands gone still. "You were fine before without me, fine those three years."

Sherlock clenches his teeth and keeps his voice calm. "Maybe I don't want to go back to before, John."

John watches Sherlock a moment longer then lets his fork fall to his plate and puts a hand over his eyes with a heavy sigh. “Sherlock, this is your life, your obsession, your need to solve every puzzle which you find interesting, not mine.”

“You never said ‘I’d rather stay home,’” Sherlock reminds him. “You always came too.”

“Well, I’m not anymore, I can’t.” John pulls his hand away from his eyes. “I have a job, one that pays me. I have a fine life, a fiancée; Christ, I’m going to get married, Sherlock!”

Sherlock scoffs. “So, you’ll have the same boring life with the only change being a bit of jewelry?”

“Sherlock, stop it.”

Sherlock pushes on instead. “You don’t need her anymore, John. She filled a space but I’m back now.”

“Sherlock,” John’s voice has gone hard, “don’t.”

Yet Sherlock does not desist. “You don’t need her; she’s not important.” Sherlock lays his hands flat on the table. “You could do something better, be part of something meaningful, be with me!”

“Enough!” John snaps too loud, banging his fist on the table. “I’m not going to let you hurt me again!” 

Sherlock rears back as if John punched him. “John…”

John stands up swiftly but Sherlock grabs his arm. "John, wait, plea–"

But John pulls his arm out of Sherlock's grip, “Lunch is on you,” and marches away.

–––––

Sherlock stands beside Mycroft on the balcony of Mycroft’s office, a view of the Thames in the distance, people moving on the streets below. Sherlock taps ash off the end of his cigarette to float off into the air. Why use an ash tray when there’s far worse exhaust from cars pumping into the air? He hears Mycroft sigh but Mycroft isn’t exactly using the ash tray either so perhaps he should get down off his high horse.

“Why do people have to be so…”

“Difficult?” Mycroft finishes.

“Stubborn.”

Mycroft takes a drag of his cigarette then blows out smoke. “And here I thought you were going to come up with another clever synonym for ‘idiotic.’ What do you think of ‘moronic?’”

“As 'idiotic' was not the initial word I was grasping for it is hardly relevant."

“Relevant or not, are we going to go on pretending you’re talking about society as a whole, Sherlock?”

Sherlock frowns and takes a deeper drag of his cigarette, almost at the filter now.

“John is allowed to have a life not completely centered around you. Did you really think everything would fall back three years like book pages?”

“Must you use metaphors?” Sherlock growls.

“You cannot force it.”

"Oh and am I trying to force it?"

"Yes."

Sherlock sucks in the last of his cigarette then flicks if off the balcony with two fingers. “He’s just become too accustomed, stuck in normalcy. Someone has to pull him out.”

“You, of course?”

“He needs me. "

Mycroft stubs out his cigarette on the black metal rail, letting it fall off a second later. “Sherlock, you abandoned him; he had to move on.”

“I saved him.”

Mycroft smiles. “You chose your own peace of mind over his.”

Sherlock looks at Mycroft sharply. Mycroft raises his eyebrows.

“You let him suffer the pain of you dying rather than suffer the pain yourself of his death.”

"I did what was necessary," Sherlock insists. "Regardless of how you paint it, Mycroft with a convenient disregard for the difference in the the threat of actual death and that of a ruse, there was no other way out."

“Your ruse of a death was certainly real for him, Sherlock.” Mycroft straightens his tie and sighs, “for all of us.”

Sherlock turns to Mycroft and frowns. Then he reaches into Mycroft’s coat pocket and pulls out the pack of cigarettes. He pulls out one, tosses the pack back at Mycroft, and lights the cigarette with shaking hands.

–––––

Sherlock shows up at Baker Street at least once a week, more often two or three or even four times.

“Coagulated blood at the scene, pair of scissors, blond hair clippings but the victim is a brunette.”

John bites a piece of toast. “Did you check for hair dye?”

“Of course.”

Mary brings Sherlock tea every time he comes by, the cup appears almost too fast for it to have been started as soon as he arrives. Sherlock suspects she keeps a thermos of the cheapest, bottom shelf brew she could find in the refrigerator and reheats it each time.

“How much sugar have you added in this cup, doctor?” Sherlock asks putting just enough mockery into the title.

Mary snaps her fingers. “Crazy, the spoon just keeps slipping!”

"I may have suggested she add extra," John says with a smirk.

"He didn't," Mary corrects.

"I did."

"Stealing my ideas, doctor?"

"Always, doctor."

Sherlock knocks his tea over on purpose but Mary only laughs.

“Mrs. Hudson asked after you in her last letter.” John adds and hands it over. “She called you a twat.”

“Likes being back in Florida that much, does she?”

Sherlock even appears at John’s hospital, poking his head into John’s office regardless if he’s busy or not.

“Dog bites versus cat bites?”

John’s patient whirls around. “I… I don’t have either one?”

John peers up from the chart on his desk. “In regards to infection?”

“No, size of bite.”

“I... shouldn’t that be obvious?”

“Why don’t you come and see?” Sherlock grins.

“No,” John points at his patient then at Sherlock, “close the door.” But Sherlock sees John smiling down into his paperwork.

John texts later: Could it be a possum or something else? Fox maybe?

Sherlock appears at Baker Street without a reason – he only has one real reason. No pretense of a case, just any chance he can find to be back in their flat, no matter the cosmetic changes, with his John

“You’ve turned my bedroom into a study?”

Mary yelps and drops a stack of student papers in surprise when Sherlock appears in the kitchen. John scoots his chair back to see around Mary picking papers up off the floor.

“Did you make yourself a key?” John asks.

“Obviously.”

Mary stands up and blows hair out of her eyes. “What? How?”

“When you handed me the stack of books at Oxford; I used your distraction to take the keys from your pocket, went and made copies after you left the lounge, returned the keys to your office desk while you were teaching your 3 PM lecture. Simple.”

“I...” Mary stares. “That was two months ago!”

"He does that," John says to Mary.

"Unlocking and entering?"

"Oh yeah."

“A study?” Sherlock says around her to John.

John shrugs. “We didn’t need two bedrooms.”

Sometimes John scowls and ignores and shouts at Sherlock.

“You can’t just come over here every day and expect me listen to you like I used to.”

Sherlock stands on the stoop, John blocking the doorway. "Please, John, I am only asking for five minutes." He raises his eyebrows. "You used to –"

"Exactly, 'used to,' not now."

When John tries to shut the door Sherlock slams his hand on it. "How long, John, how long must I –"

“This is not three years ago, Sherlock, I can’t!” And if John’s voice cracks then Sherlock makes no comment even if he stands in front of the closed door with his hand upon it for five minutes more after it’s closed. 

Sometimes John smirks into his book or smiles into his patient files, sometimes he laughs so the sound echoes through Sherlock's heart.

“Oh, please, no he didn’t,” John only laughs harder, “’I knew it?’ Did he even sound convincing?”

“Anderson never sounds convincing.”

John snorts and keeps on chuckling. “I thought you didn’t want all of Scotland Yard knowing… what did you say, ‘your status as alive?’”

“Hmm, well it could be amusing to see how he tries to convince everyone else.”

John shakes his head. “You’re going to blackmail him, aren’t you?”

Sherlock grins. 

(Maybe Mary even smiles, laughs along with them from her seat by the fireplace away from them on the couch but maybe Sherlock ignores the sound).

Sometimes, once in a great while – a lucky time, a perfect time, a moment of gorgeous sunshine – John will say yes and come. He’ll come for an hour, one autopsy, twenty minutes at a particularly interesting crime scene but he’ll come.

“I need to be back to work in fifteen; we have to be quick.”

“We’ll only need ten minutes.”

John grins. “I’ll time you.”

John bends over a body, gloves on his hands, poking at abrasions and checking temperature. He mutters under his breath and glances up at Sherlock when he notices something significant, does not even need to say out loud what he knows because Sherlock understands.

“Time of death?” Sherlock asks.

John smiles and pulls off his gloves. “If you guessed ten to twelve hours ago you get the prize.”

Sherlock nods. “I never guess.”

Sometimes... sometimes Mary stops him at the first landing after he lefts himself in, blocking his path with her small, one point six meter frame.

“He’s not here.”

Sherlock hears other footsteps, hears a door close, sees keys, a coat. “Yes, he is.”

“Well, then maybe he’s not here when it comes to you.”

“I just need to –”

“Leave,” Mary finishes for him and her face stays determined. “Please.”

If Sherlock listens, strains through floor boards, he will hear a fist hit plaster.

–––––

“This is ridiculous.”

“Of course,” Lestrade replies as the pub door closes behind them.

Sherlock stops two more steps in just before the bar. “I do have better things to be spending my time on.”

“Of course,” Molly says as Lestrade pushes Sherlock in the back to move him forward.

“If you would –“

“Shut up, Sherlock,” Lestrade says and steers Sherlock by the shoulders until shoving him down into a booth, himself and Molly sitting opposite.

Lestrade orders them all beers while Sherlock slowly takes off his gloves. Once their waiter disappears, Sherlock drops his gloves on the table and lays his hands down flat beside them. “Well then?”

Lestrade mimics Sherlock ‘s hands on the table. “Thought we’d have a chat.”

“Is this an intervention?”

“What?” Molly gasps. “No, of course not.”

“Yes, it is,” Lestrade corrects.

“Well, no, not really.”

Lestrade gives Molly a look then turns back to Sherlock. “It is.”

“We’re just concerned,” Molly adds, “We thought… I mean, we wanted to ask…”

“What are you doing?” Lestrade finishes for the fumbling Molly.

Sherlock frowns. “What I have always been doing, Lestrade, in case it escaped your notice. I’ve never stopped being a detective.”

“Sherlock, that’s not –“

Lestrade taps the table. “You know that’s not what we meant.”

Sherlock moves to stand up but Molly puts her hand on his arm. “Wait, Sherlock, please.” He looks down at her. She presses her lips together once and squeezes his arm. “Please.”

Sherlock sighs and sits down again. The drinks arrive just as Sherlock sits and for a moment they simply move glasses around and take sips of their different brews. Sherlock only takes one gulp then pushes it toward the opposite side of the table.

“Fine.” Sherlock threads his fingers together on top of the table. “Say it then.”

“I don’t pretend to understand what goes on up in that brain of yours, Sherlock, but I know you’ve got to stop what you’re doing with John.”

“What I’m doing?” Sherlock snaps incredulously at Lestrade.

“Badgering him, throwing your cases into his face; you can’t just force him into who he used to be. You’re the one that did a right job destroying that.”

Sherlock stiffens but Molly jumps in before Lestrade can go on or Sherlock retort. “What we’re saying is that we’re concerned.” Molly gives Lestrade a look and he purses his lips. She looks back at Sherlock. “I know what…” she clears her throat and lowers her voice slightly. “I mean, what you really want.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitches slightly and he unclasps his hands then slowly lays them on top of each other on the table. Molly holds his gaze then smiles in a thin line. 

“I think… it doesn’t really look like… I think you need to do something else.”

Lestrade looks back and forth between them and scrunches his forehead with confusion.

Sherlock holds in a sigh and swallows once instead. “There is nothing else to do, Molly.”

“Of course there is!”

“Oh?” Sherlock leans forward over the table, voice suddenly harsh. “This is all I can do Molly. The reason John and I became flatmates – friends – in the first place was my work, my mind, certainly not my charm, I know!” Sherlock taps the side of his head. “This is what matters and if that fails…” Sherlock huffs angrily. 

“You’re not just your mind, Sherlock,” Molly says with a smile. 

Sherlock snorts. “That is all anyone is.”

Lestrade grumbles and knocks back some of his beer.

“You should just tell him!” Molly blurts out making Sherlock frown. “Sherlock, I know he felt –“

“Felt?”

“Well… I, I mean don’t know if –“

“Good bye.” Sherlock stands up, grabbing his gloves, before Molly can stop him again or Lestrade protest and walks away from the table and out of the pub.

–––––

“You can’t discount them all!”

“Easily.”

“He’s a national treasure!”

“A long dead one.”

Mary groans. “You know what I meant!”

“All of his works are copies of already existing plotlines, hardly original apart from their existence in mainstream modern media and working of prose which is overly fluid and unnecessarily flowery regardless, and all of which end in predictable patterns of death or weddings depending upon the thematic type.”

“Well, what about the histories then?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “It’s history; read a book.”

“But it’s Shakespeare!”

John suddenly snorts loudly and bursts out a laugh. Mary and Sherlock both look at him sharply.

“Ah,” John shakes his head and laughs again. “Déjà vu here.”

Mary looks back at Sherlock across the table. “Hamlet, how can you ignore the quality of that language? How many speeches are common knowledge because of their beauty and inspiration, the themes which spark so much discussion?”

“And aren’t your feminist sensibilities just pleased as punch about Ophelia’s surprise madness and subsequent watery suicide in that oh so wonderful play?”

Mary groans again and puts her forehead down on the table.

“Not to mention,” Sherlock presses, “the whole authorship is in question.”

Mary’s head snaps up and she points at Sherlock. “Oh no, do not go conspiracy theory on me now mister logic and reason.”

Sherlock smirks and just raises his eyebrows at her.

Mary leans into John beside her in the booth and stage whispers, “What would you do if I killed him again?”

“Well,” John says with his voice at merely a low volume, “I’d be upset but I would understand your reasons.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes but cannot stop the small smile tugging at his lips as John glances at him.

Mary smiles at John then purses her lips once. He raises an eyebrow back at her until she breaks into a real grin and laughs once. John grins widely right back.

“Okay,” She laughs again, “no killing.”

“Good. Won’t have to bail you out of jail then.”

Mary nods. “Yeah, I’m saving for a new couch.”

“You are not.”

“Really? Did you see the last wine stain you left?”

John snorts. “That was you.”

“It was not.”

“I can give you the details of how that went if you like.”

Mary flushes, glances at Sherlock once then puts up a hand in surrender to John. “Okay, okay, stain is all mine, you devil.”

John smirks. “Thank you.”

Sherlock’s hands clench under the table. “Might we leave this establishment now?”

Mary and John turn to him and Mary seems to consider. “No dessert?” Sherlock only gives her a look and John chuckles. Mary drums her hands on the table. “Coffee?”

Sherlock tilts his head. “Anxious to stay? Avoiding grading papers again?”

Mary groans. “Ugh, I don’t need you to elucidate that for me; you would avoid it too.”

John cocks an eyebrow. “Sense and Sensibility?”

“Macbeth.” She makes a cheeky face at Sherlock and he frowns. Then she taps the table with her knuckles. “Okay, you two get the cheque, I will be right back.”

Mary nudges John in the side so he stands up and gives her room to slide out of the booth.

“Smoke,” Sherlock says before she’s not quite out of ear shot.

John shakes his head, still standing beside the table watching Mary leave. Then he looks down at Sherlock, “Not hard one that, yeah?”

Sherlock refrains from commenting on the fairness of Mary’s occasional smoking causing no disruption but his own past smoking being a topic of consternation. 

John gives one last glance to the door of the restaurant then he sits back down on Sherlock's side of the booth. Knees, thighs, shoulders – this is the most they have touched since John pinned him to the floor of 221b with punches and screams. Sherlock breathes in slowly through his nose.

John turns and looks sidelong at Sherlock. “So, do you like her yet?”

“Who’s to say I ever will?”

“Do you like her yet?” John repeats. Sherlock simply gazes back at John and does not respond. John smiles slowly. “You didn’t say ‘no.’”

“I didn’t say yes.”

John shrugs. “I will take no ‘no’ for now.”

For a moment they sit in silence, the cuff of John’s jumper brushing Sherlock’s wrist. Then Sherlock breathes in deeply, “well, at least she has no dog like Jeannette.”

John frowns. “Jeannette… Jeannette didn’t have….” Then suddenly he snorts and bursts out laughing.

Sherlock smiles and starts to laugh along with John. They laugh side by side with far more gusto than the small joke should produce. John elbows Sherlock gently once and shakes his head. 

“Oh god,” John chuckles again as their laughter finally dies down. “It should not be that funny.”

“No.” Sherlock grins. “It shouldn’t.”

John giggles once more and sighs quietly, “Oh, I did miss you, Sherlock.”

They turn and look at each other until John shifts, leaning back more against the booth and slinging an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock stays still – feels each breath John takes – and watches John smile.

–––––

Sherlock bursts through the door to 221B sometime after nine at night, bounds up the stairs and stops in the door way. Mary looks up from her laptop in the far chair, eyes widening. John walks out of the kitchen and stops short – blood at Sherlock’s hairline, dirt on his face, another splatter of blood on his white shirt (not his).

“Sherlock!”

“John, I need you –”

“I’m coming.”

John strides over to the couch then steps up on it. He reaches above the book case and pulls down a lock box. Yanking a key from the key ring in his pocket, John opens the box, pulls out his gun and one clip. He looks up at Sherlock and snaps the two together.

“John...” Mary says quietly.

He looks back at her. “I’ll be back, I promise.”

Then John turns back to Sherlock and they run down the stairs. Out on the street a taxi waits; Sherlock opens the back door for John then climbs in after him. The cab takes off down the street.

“So?” John asks.

“Thinks he lost me, ducked down an alley in the shadow of a bus but we can cut him off – Left here, left!”

John scoffs. “You’re right in the middle of a chase?”

“Why else would I have blood on my shirt?”

“I can give you a whole list.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Yes, a chase.”

John touches Sherlock brow, turns Sherlock’s head by his chin to assess the wound then lets go. “And you stop to get me?”

Sherlock smiles. “You have the gun.”

They twist down half a dozen more streets in the cab, their driver shooting confused looks at Sherlock with every turn but never failing to follow the directions.

“Stop!” Sherlock shouts suddenly. “Stop, stop!”

The cab jerks to a halt and Sherlock leaps out of the cab, John throwing money and racing after him.

“Where?” John shouts after Sherlock.

“Just check for the bloody nose,” Sherlock says over his shoulder.

John starts to laugh just as Sherlock breaks into a run, another man ten meters ahead knocking over a restaurant table. Sherlock closes the distance, just as the man skids into an alley. Sherlock nearly loses his footing but John behind him stays level and grabs Sherlock’s coat to stop his fall. They turn together down the alley.

“Stop!” John shouts at the suspect still running down the alley.

The man knocks over a set of trash cans into their path. John careens into one, smashing onto the ground with a yelp. Sherlock jumps over John and keeps running.

“Come on, John!”

“Prat,” John groans but Sherlock glances back and sees John already on his feet again.

Sherlock turns around just in time to be clotheslined by their suspect. Sherlock barely has a chance to shout in pain before his back slams into the ground and his head hits with a crack he knows is all bone. Stars flash in his eyes and everything suddenly blacks out. 

Vision rushes back just as suddenly before Sherlock can tell the length of time he was out and he hears John’s voice. “ – now, I said!”

Sherlock sees John standing above him, gun held out before him.

“You’re not cop, what can you –“

“I can point a gun at you which I am, if you’ve noticed. So back off and hands up!”

Sherlock groans, head throbbing, neck aching and rolls onto his knees.

“You all right?” John asks without looking down. Sherlock moans a reply. “Call Lestrade, we have your suspect now, Sherlock.”

Despite the pain in multiple parts of his body, Sherlock smiles wide and feels the rush of three years ago like sun light soaking through cloth as burning, warm, fantastic fire. 

Lestrade arrives seven minutes after Sherlock calls him, John keeping their man – Robert Stevens is his name – pinned to the wall at gun point, eyes never wavering. Sherlock disappears into another twist in the alley once more police cars arrive. John smiles and hands off the man to Lestrade before he can be spotted by anyone else other than the inspector.

“Thought you were mostly staying away?” Sherlock hears Lestrade ask John before he leaves.

“Well, who can resist a good chase?" John replies then appears a moment later at the mouth of alley where Sherlock leans against the wall.

“We should push off.” Sherlock peers down at his phone and texts his client about the success, informing them to check at the police station for more information. “Though the force may be slow when it comes to intelligent deduction they are sticklers for procedure at crime scenes.”

John raises his eyebrows. “Lead on.”

They walk side by side down the alley, out onto the main street then they cross over into another alley. John shakes his head with a chuckle at Sherlock's short cuts but says nothing. Sherlock glances out of the corner of his eye at John. John smiles as they walk then glances up at Sherlock.

John grins more. “That was fun.”

Sherlock purses his lips. “Didn't think you'd miss it?”

John huffs lightly. "I hadn't."

Sherlock takes a large step and curls around into John's path. John stops and looks up at Sherlock. Sherlock tilts his head. "Really?"

Neither moves for a long breath, then John shifts forward and Sherlock pulls John into his arms, one of John’s hands sliding onto Sherlock’s hip and they’re kissing. Sherlock memorizes every second of that first moment – John's body flush against him, John's smell. His one hand shifts up to touch the exposed skin of John's neck and he kisses John with every second of three lost years. John tastes like sweat, tastes like memory, and his one hand curves around Sherlock’s back so there can be no space between them. Sherlock shifts and turns John back into the wall making John hiss with surprise into the kiss but they don’t stop. Sherlock kisses John's jaw, down slowly over John's erratic pulse, then back to his lips, pushing John’s head against the bricks.

Sherlock sighs into their frenzied kisses and when John whispers, “Sherlock,” it sounds like love.

"Oh John," Sherlock whispers back, lips barely touching and for one second Sherlock can believe three years never happened.

Then John moves his head to the side and the kissing stops. Sherlock breathes slowly against John’s hot skin, his lips at John’s hairline. Every time he breathes, Sherlock feels John’s chest move with his. He drops his hand from John’s neck to his chest and counts heart beats – one and two and three alive.

John pushes Sherlock back gently by Sherlock’s hips. They look at each other again but John’s face is not the expression of happiness Sherlock expected. Instead his mouth is a straight line, like there are too many sad things he wants to say.

Sherlock's chest constricts. “John…”

John shakes his head and steps out from between Sherlock and the wall. “I’m sorry.”

“John.” Sherlock tries to control the panic seeping into his voice. “No, John.”

John just shakes his head again. “No, it’s too late.”

He starts to walk toward the road but Sherlock grabs his wrist. "No, John, please wait."

John shakes his head again. "No, I should not have done that."

"Please, John, you can't –"

"Let me go," John says firmly.

Sherlock stares at John then slowly lets go of his hand. John turns and walks away out to the street. Sherlock remains where he stands until John climbs into a cab and rides away.

––––

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock climbs out of his own cab in front of 221B. He glances up at the windows of the flat – lights still on, the shadow of someone standing near enough to the window, Mary. Sherlock unlocks the front door and slowly climbs the stairs. When he stops in the doorway Mary looks over at him from where she stands by the window. John in the chair near her does not look up.

“What happened?” She asks Sherlock.

Sherlock’s eyes tick to John, back to Mary, then back again to John. He waits for John – his John – to start because he is the one who said ‘no.’

“What happened?” Mary repeats insistently.

“You know, I spent a year mourning you,” John says and finally looks up at Sherlock. “A whole year; might have been more if not for Mary. Hell, I could be still up there locked in my room right now if not for Mary.” He sits up in his chair, leaning toward Sherlock with every word. “I was a fucking ghost. I walked around this city and didn’t see a bloody thing but a giant hole where you used to be.”

“I was always going to come back,” Sherlock says quietly.

“But I didn’t know that, did I?”

“I had to save you.”

“Save me from what exactly?” John cocks his head. “From death? Because I can tell you there are worse things than that. I buried you and you think you saved me?”

“I would have had to bury you!” Sherlock snaps. “Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and you!”

“But that’s not just it.” John stands up, pointing a finger at Sherlock. “You still had to beat him.”

“No, to stop him, I had –“

“Shooting himself wasn’t enough for you, that wasn’t ‘solved’ or whatever was going on in your head. You had to really beat him.”

“It wasn’t safe for his network to remain –“

“Wasn’t safe?” John barks. “Do you think what you left behind was safe?”

Sherlock mouth clamps shut over a retort because there is no mistaking John’s meaning.

“But that didn’t happen, John, okay?” Mary interrupts causing both men to turn to her. “And you got through it.”

John sighs and stares at the floor. “I know.”

Mary glances at Sherlock. “I know you had good intentions but… you didn’t do just what you thought you did.”

“I couldn’t let you die if I could save you,” Sherlock gasps, looking only at John. “Can’t you see that?”

“Sherlock, you half killed me anyway when you died.” He looks up and it’s not anger anymore, just pain. “You were my whole world. It was you and me every single day; running through the streets, quick meals grabbed in whatever place was closest before we ran off again to find a new clue; case after case with people that only blew in for a day or less. The only constants were you and me, just us.” John shakes his head. “I had girlfriends, yeah, Mrs. Hudson, other friends, but they were just pieces compared to the whole of us.”

Sherlock stares silently, his mouth dry, and his hands shake until he curls them into fists. “Do you think it wasn't the same for me? Even more so?"

“Oh, I know it was, yet in three years and you couldn’t have found a way?” Anger flashes across John's face again. “You couldn’t have found some way to just tell me you were alive?”

“I should have,” Sherlock admits – finally admits a wrong, “I should have found a way but I didn’t. I was trying to protect you.” John huffs and looks away but Sherlock presses on. “I can’t go back and change that, and neither can you, but we have this now. We have now.”

“Sherlock…” John groans quietly.

Sherlock takes a step forward closer to John. “We can start over. We –“

“Start over? Sherlock, I loved you!” John snaps and Sherlock feels a hundred old memories click into place. “Against every instinct which told me this was a bad idea, to stop it, I loved you anyway; not just your brilliance, everything about you, even the insane, frustrating, idiotic parts of you!”

“John…” Mary whispers.

Sherlock swallows. “John, you don't under–"

“Oh yes I do, Sherlock!” John shouts. “I know you loved me too! I was too scared and you were too slow; and now you say ‘we can start over’ but we never started in the first place!”

For a moment full, raw emotion like he never feels shoots through Sherlock’s body. “Yes, we did, John, don’t you say that!”

“We never had a chance! It was too much running and danger and insanity for any calm for anything real.” 

"Oh, it was real!" Sherlock shouts.

John scoffs and waves a hand at the far wall. “You couldn’t even play Cluedo without stabbing the game board.”

Sherlock growls. “That game is –“

“You just don’t know how to be in a relationship, even a friendship, so how could you ever figure out what love is? How would you be able to do that?”

Sherlock fumbles back a step – three years of moments that prove, oh yes, he knows what love is – and breathes in slowly to calm his speeding heart. He breathes out again and spreads his hands out to the sides. “Then let me try.”

John shakes his head, such a sad expression on his face. “What do you think those two years together were?”

Sherlock growls with frustration again. “You can’t just say no!”

“I wanted you back for a long time, Sherlock, but it’s too late now.”

Sherlock scowls and points at Mary. “So it’s Mary instead then? You love her?”

“Sherlock…” John says with a warning tone. 

“You never loved any of the others!” Sherlock continues. “So what is so different now?”

“I’m different because I was here,” Mary snaps abruptly, taking a step toward Sherlock. “I didn’t meet John when you were here, when the two of you were happy and running around doing all the things John has told me about. No, I met him when he would break off lunch dates because he needed to change the flowers on your grave. I met him when he’d forget he was talking to me because a memory of you suddenly tore him away. I’m different because I took the time to find out who he really was under all the pain you caused and then I still stayed!”

Sherlock stares at her for a long pause. “Maybe so, Dr. Morstan, but I’m back now and he doesn’t need you anymore.”

“We need each other,” Mary corrects, “that’s what love is.”

"Oh, I know that," Sherlock hisses.

“It’s okay," John says as Mary opens her mouth again and touches her arm.

She turns to him. “You never told… you never told me you… you felt…about him.”

John smiles. “Did we really need to add another thing to my layers of baggage?”

Mary chuckles lightly. “I guess not.”

They gaze at each other silently, fingers threading together, and Sherlock feels his presence diminishing.

“What do… what do you want then, John?” Sherlock asks haltingly.

John stares at the carpet for a moment then looks up at Sherlock, face certain. “Right now, for you to leave.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “You’ve told me to leave enough.”

“Please,” John says.

Sherlock stares at John, glances at Mary who doesn’t even appear angry anymore, then back to John. He wants to scream he wants to grab John’s hand to pull him, to run away, and leave every hurt memory and every person who has taken Sherlock’s place in John’s life. Instead he turns and walks away down the stairs. He makes it as far as the very bottom step before his knees give out and he collapses into a heap.

–––––

Sherlock opens his eyes to a touch on his hair.

“Morning.” Mary smiles down at him, purse on her shoulder. “Sleep here all night or did you let yourself in again early?”

Sherlock thinks up five sarcastic replies to her question but instead says, “All night.”

Mary nods. “Yeah.” Then she leans over him and pulls a mug of coffee off the end of the banister where Sherlock hadn’t paid any attention to it before. “Here, wake yourself up.”

Sherlock sits up straight and takes the coffee from her though it smells like too much milk. He raises an eyebrow and she chuckles.

“Okay, so I added milk. There’s two sugars though.”

“Charming,” Sherlock mutters.

Mary stands up straight again and adjusts the strap of her purse. “I’m off to work now. John’s not.” Then she turns and walks out the front door without another word.

Sherlock listens to her footsteps quickly fade, the sounds of morning traffic outside the door, and up above he hears the quiet noises of one person in an other wise empty flat. Sherlock puts the mug down on the step then stands up. When he walks into the flat he hears John moving in the kitchen; dishes, water, what sounds like eggs. Sherlock walks across the carpet then stands in the kitchen door.

“John?”

John glances up, obviously not surprised at all to see Sherlock there. He looks Sherlock up and down then sighs. “Take off your coat, all right? You don’t need to live in it.”

Sherlock frowns but takes off his coat anyway and drapes it over the brown chair next to the fireplace where John’s old chair used to sit. He steps into the kitchen, notices the woeful lack of laboratory equipment. John waves a hand at the kitchen table set for breakfast as he spreads jam on a piece of toast. In the center of the table rests a dish of eggs while two pieces of buttered toast wait on the plate in front of the chair John indicated for Sherlock.

“I’m not hung –“

“Don’t be ridiculous,” John chides, adding jam to his second piece of toast. “You don’t need to be thinking quickly now and you probably haven’t eaten since breakfast yesterday. Sit.”

So Sherlock sits.

John turns around and places the two pieces of jam toast on his plate. He pulls out his chair then sits down. John takes a bite of one piece of toast and watches Sherlock. Sherlock looks down at his plate but does not pick up the toast or add any eggs.

“So?” John says, as he chews. “Here we are.”

“John, I didn’t come back to London for Mycroft or Lestrade; I didn’t come back because it’s the only place I can live or because it’s the only place I can do my work. I came back for you. I spent three years waiting – wanting – to come back here for you, just you.” Sherlock puts his hands palm together on the table and leans closer over the food. “You can’t ask me to just stay away from you now when you are the very reason I am here.”

“I’m not asking you to stay away.”

“Then what?”

John puts down his piece of toast. “I’m asking you to be my friend again.”

“We still are friends. We’re… we’re more than that.”

“No, we’re not.”

“We are," Sherlock insists, "we have been right from the start!"

“Sherlock,” John reaches out to cover Sherlock’s one hand with his and the touch feels like electricity, “we’re closer friends than any pair of people I know but there’s a line.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “There doesn’t have to be.”

“I meant what I said last night, Sherlock. I loved you and you will always be important to me but I am in love with Mary and I am going to marry her.”

"John, all I've been thinking about in between the chases, the crimes – Sebastian – for three years I have only thought about you, about coming home to you. You have to give me a chance."

John shakes his head. “Sherlock, we can still be friends, we can even do cases together now and then, if you still want me to. But things are different after three years, after you dying, after all of that, even after you coming back. There is no way it wasn’t going to change. It doesn’t mean it’s worse.”

"I have to disagree."

"It’s just different, Sherlock and that's what you've got.” John touches the edge of his plate but he doesn’t pick up his toast again. “I do want you in my life. I lost you once; I don’t need to do it twice.”

Sherlock stares at the edge of the kitchen table – dark wood, solid not particle board, stained for water resistance. He sees a chip at the far right, most likely from knocking against the wall or a kitchen cabinet at some point.

“Sherlock.”

“I… I don’t…” Sherlock breathes through his nose and peers up at John. “I don’t want to… lose you again either.”

John smiles. “Good.”

Sherlock nods stiffly and picks up one of his pieces of toast.

“You know,” John starts as Sherlock takes a bite. “You saved me those five years ago when we first met, saved me from myself. And then Mary did the same thing the second time.”

“So I should accept her?”

John shakes his head. “You can feel and think whatever you want about Mary, Sherlock; I know you would anyway no matter what I say. Just know that you two are the most important people to me and I want to keep both of you. Okay?”

Sherlock swallows two more quick bites and puts down the piece of toast. His chest hurts and his mind swirls and he certainly will not smile but Sherlock knows from hundreds of mornings and afternoons and late, late nights with John that this is the end of the line, this is the final point he must accept because the arguments are done. John pushes and gives and folds and understands all up to a point. This is the point, take it or leave it.

“As you wish, John.”

–––––

The wedding of Dr. John Hamish Watson and Dr. Mary Edith Morstan boasts less than a hundred guests, mostly family with two dozen friends on her side and less than that on his. The ceremony takes fifteen minutes, ending with blowing bubbles instead of throwing rice – Mary’s idea no doubt. The reception hall glows with strings of lights around the ceiling and large star center pieces on each table, red and black colors to match John’s uniform.

(Sherlock will remember the cut of the uniform, each button, each embellishment, and how clear the vision of the distinguished army doctor appeared that day for the rest of his life).

Harry gives a toast – mostly sober – about John’s fall from bachelor grace while Mary’s youngest sister talks about their childhood and happiness as adults. The bride’s father calls them “a perfect union of doctors.” Everyone toasts then continues to clink their glasses every five minutes afterward to get a kiss out of the couple.

Sherlock sits in the back at a mostly empty table of no show guests and speaks to no one, growling at the few who try to engage him until they escape out of fear.

John looks as happy as any time they ran through London streets side by side, home again breathless with laughter, shouting with joy when the case was closed. Sherlock wants to tell someone, ‘I made him that happy once, I was there first’ but there is no one to tell – no one who would care. Sherlock swallows champagne and thinks maybe, actually, John looks even happier than back then. For a rare moment in his life, Sherlock wishes he did not observe everything so clearly.

After two hours of dancing – the first dance, the father/mother dances, as well as a ridiculous round of instructional dance songs for fifteen minutes – and the guests reduced by at least half, Sherlock asks the groom for a dance.

“Congratulations,” Sherlock says with John in his arms, Sherlock leading the dance.

John laughs. “You know, you don’t have to be happy for me. I know you’re not.”

“Not really.”

John laughs again. “Thank you.”

“I… I am pleased though that you are... happy.”

“Ah.” John tilts his head. “Well, good.”

They dance around the floor to the slow tune, only a few other couples still twisting with them. Sherlock hears Mary’s throaty giggle somewhere off to their left followed by the hoots and claps of her bridesmaids. Over John’s head he sees Harry passed out at the head table, head resting on her arms.

John squeezes Sherlock’s hand and he looks down. “Thank you for coming.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“Maybe.”

Sherlock purses his lips but refrains from a retort. Instead he pulls John into a slightly dramatic twirl around the floor making John chuckle. Sherlock holds John tight and John doesn’t stop him. They turn and step to the music, something sappy and stereotypically wedding. Sherlock realizes he cannot consciously bring up the last time he danced with someone, maybe never; maybe this will be the first and last time. He would want no other partner for it.

Then the song ends, changing into something bouncier so the bridesmaids squeal and run back on the dance floor. John lets go of Sherlock’s hand and they pull apart. Sherlock makes himself smile for John’s sake and John smiles back.

Then suddenly John goes up on his toes and gives Sherlock a hard kiss on his cheek. “Honeymoon will be a week.” He drops down again and steps back, same smile on his face. “Promise me you’ll be here when I get back?”

Sherlock breathes slowly in and out, then nods. “I promise. I’m not leaving again.”


End file.
